


The Piano

by Bfly1225



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, reverse omens - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen, I don't know what to tag this, Piano, Weird writing Style, slkdjfhlkjsalkf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 08:10:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20042737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bfly1225/pseuds/Bfly1225
Summary: The music, much like the woman playing it, demanded attention. It would not be ignored. It filled the shop, flooded it with the captivating sound as the piano cried with joy to be fulfilling the purpose it was made for, and weeping, for the hands that played it had seen such tragedy in their time.AKAZiraphon, identifying as a very rare "she", finally indulges her most hidden secret and plays the piano in Corviel's old music shop.





	The Piano

**Author's Note:**

> Ziraphon and Corviel are reverse au ineffable husbands. This probably isn't the best fic to learn about them in since it's in a wonky perspective and Ziraphon is identifying as a girl at the moment. There *is* a collection, though, and if you wanna ask questions, I *love* talking about them.

Imagine, if you will, a music shop run by two very old, very immortal, and very queer people.

Now, imagine that one of those people has gone out to run errands that have been calculated down to the smallest item. This is his monthly big shopping trip, the one that took him a handful of hours because there was many things to get from many shops. His partner-- currently identifying as a very rare "she" at this moment-- kisses him a loving goodbye. She knows she will only stress out her angelic love if she goes along-- her penchant for mischief and plan-destroying has never agreed well with his compulsory need for a plan-- so she is staying behind. She will close the shop exactly when he closes on a normal night and turn of the lights in the order he turns them off, and assures him of this as he smiles thinly and leaves for his errands.

She, bored to death about an hour into watching the empty store, closes the blinds early and flips the sign to closed about an hour into shop-keeping. How her love did that all day, she wasn't sure. She stands next to the piano he has had on display in the instrument corner since an age long passed, runs her fingers along the dusty cover. It is a very nice piano, desperately requires tuning, but that's not hard for a demon. She snaps her fingers and plays a scale, still standing up, and smiles as it hits every note the exact way she wants it to. She tugs out the bench, dusting it off, and sits, tugging her tiny shorts down so that her thighs won't get stuck to its leather.

Her fingers already know what they’re doing as she sets them above the keys. Without sheet music, she begins to play. Had someone been in the shop at the time, they would have stopped their browsing to listen. The music, much like the woman playing it, demanded attention. It would not be ignored. It filled the shop, flooded it with the captivating sound as the piano cried with joy to be fulfilling the purpose it was made for, and weeping, for the hands that played it had seen such tragedy in their time. The woman, through the piano, forced the lack of audience to hear her pain and her sorrows, her angers and frustrations, her love and her joy that she had found right there, in an old music shop, living with an anxious, obsessive-compulsive angel. She plays and time means nothing, it flies by and slows down all at once, follows the music as she pours her heart out into the keys.

She plays, and her lover returns, ready to comment tersely on the lights still on, but he opens the door and the piano continues to flood the room as she tilts her head back and begins to sing in a language the humans of earth did not speak anymore, singing along to the piano and drowning the sound of the door out.

He's captivated. He watches as she sings and her face contorts around the words, she is the music, and he's gone. He's been in love with music since it's conception. He has surrounded himself in it and been entranced by it all his life, and his love- the woman dressed in a leather crop top and shorts that might as well be classified as an undergarment- had become it in a way he managed to achieve after a half-bottle of wine and a sad song on his guitar, except she was living it and breathing it, her voice more angelic than the choirs of heaven could hope for. She was everything he could ever want, and he wipes tears of holy water from his cheeks that he hadn't quite remember shedding. The piano stops, the singing stops, and she turns to look at him, eyes wide with surprise and black-lined mouth agape.

"You son of a bitch! You snuck up on me!!"


End file.
